But his words were borne away by the driving wind. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door.
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